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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522247">Sweet Tooth Rock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasert/pseuds/pleasert'>pleasert</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Elemental Magic, F/F, form: short story, while there is death it is not angsty or sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:41:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasert/pseuds/pleasert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>My eyes widen. Somehow, even though it’s completely unbelievable and downright crazy to try to believe her, her words are compelling and sincere. I can’t help but hang onto her words. There’s a part of my brain that’s screaming: </i>no, no, no, magic isn’t real, what is happening right now? Is this some elaborate prank? <i>But there’s nobody who would care enough to enact such a specific, pointed jape. And there she is, right in front of me, a woman made of stone, real, sturdy, gray, solid. </i></p><p>In Cape Cod, Massachusetts, there is a five-foot-tall curved stone, known to the locals as "Sweet Tooth Rock." When Noel discovers this rock is enchanted with magic, her curious soul brings her back to the rock again and again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sweet Tooth Rock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>heyo everyone! i wrote this for my creative writing class and actually really enjoyed both writing and rereading it, so i thought i'd share it with the world. enjoy!</p><p>-scout</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ever since I was a child, I’ve been scared of the ocean. Many years ago my mother tried in vain to accustom me to the water, taking me in to swim with her protection, but my dad tells stories of a weeping baby kicking her legs frantically whenever they took me in. </p><p>Strangely, I’m not afraid of water in all situations. Giving way from the ocean into our land are dozens of splintering rivers and streams lined with rocks and heavy with trout. When I was a child, I’d come back to the house soaked through with river water from playing in these streams, and my mom scolded me, making me strip bare on our porch before coming inside to save her polished hardwood floors. As a preteen I spent time catching frogs in the tender mud surrounding those streams just to examine them closely and let them go, watching them disappear into the pollenous wildflowers and weeds from the riverbeds.</p><p>Perhaps I’m not the most courageous person, then, but nobody can say I’m not curious, and I’ve begun to watch a particular rock from the perch of my bedroom window. It’s a jaggedy old rock sprouting from the water under the cliffs a half-mile walk from my house. The waves come mercilessly from the East and beat onto this jutting rock in an endless tide. The top of the rock curves southward and is shaped almost like a tooth, a curved triangle kissing the sky. </p><p>Though it’s not a living being, I can’t stop thinking about this rock. I don’t want to tell my parents; I doubt they’d understand, especially with my disinterest in school and finding a job. They’d say: <i>why, think of the other ways you could have spent your time rather than thinking about a rock!</i> And then they’d almost certainly thrust a newspaper into my hands with the jobs column circled in thick black Sharpie. (That isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate my mother doing this; she means well.) </p><p>Only, I don’t want to spend my time looking for someplace to employ me or spend time doing schoolwork; instead, I want to watch the waves crash into this helpless little stone. (Well, little from my window. It’s probably bigger close up.) From the half-bed that hugs the Eastern wall of my house, I press myself to my window and peer through to settle my eyes on the curved rock again. </p><p>Why has this rock captivated me? There are more things to do with my life; mom’s right. But everytime I look at it I think about how: what if I’m the only one to think about this rock? What then? The water isn’t going to stop; it’ll keep eroding the rock until it disappears from existence, a pile of sand buried underneath the sea. No longer upright and above the water, nobody will learn of it anymore and it will fade from the minds of all who have seen it. This would make me the sole survivor of the memory of this strange crooked stone—and even then, I <i>will</i> forget eventually. </p><p>This fact keeps me up at night, and keeps my eyes drawing back to the rock, smoothed by time and still jutting upright. It’s almost as if every day I disappear to attend school or drag myself hollow to church or any other commitment, there’s a persistent piece of the back of my mind that believes the rock will fall. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize, each time, that it’s safe and still its same curved-tooth form. </p><p>One night at dinner I can’t keep quiet about my little secret anymore. I want to tell someone, and my parents are silent while eating, aside from the usual <i>thanks</i> and <i>tastes good</i> that they offer one another for the food: casserole they made together. It’s okay and I eat, but I lower my fork down onto my plate and clear my throat to gather attention minutely. </p><p>My dad smiles a little. The skin by his eyes crinkles, his sun-worn freckled forehead distinct to my eyes. “Yeah, Noel?” </p><p>I connect my eyes with his. “Have you ever been down to the rocks at the bottom of those cliffs by the ocean?” I ask, and he hums thoughtfully. For a moment, my heart rises, hope filling my chest and making me lean forward into his space. </p><p>“Why’re you asking?” my mom accuses, before my dad has a moment to even nudge into the conversation. </p><p>But my dad’s got something to say. He hums again, and I lean deeper. “I know of the rock you’re talking about,” he says, “the one… yeah, I’ve seen that rock, bit of a local landmark.” </p><p>My jaw drops—there are others who know of it? Others who remember it? Who think of it? I gotta know—“Local landmark?” </p><p>My dad nods sagely, and I think of the wealth of knowledge contained behind his forehead that I can unlock with my words and simple patience. “Yes, it’s something of a little monument for our community here in the Cape,” he muses, “and I remember one of my brothers telling me about it when he visited. Apparently some call it ‘Sweet Tooth Rock.’” </p><p>Enraptured, I lean my head onto my hand, elbow weighted down onto the dining room table. My mom taps my arm, a gentle reminder, and I sit up straighter, taking a gulp of air to accommodate all the questions in my lungs waiting to burst forth. “Sweet Tooth Rock?” I begin, my mind swirling with the thought of others loving that same little mapmarker that I do. I’m not sure how it makes me feel: relieved, or unspecial. “Why’d they call it that?” </p><p>My mom interjects then, her brassy, familiar laugh jarring me out of my state of concentration. “Why, because it’s shaped like a tooth, of course!” </p><p>My dad offers her a chuckle in response, patting her back with his worn mitt of a hand, but this doesn’t add much to my investigation. I press forward: “Why sweet, though?” </p><p>Sighing, my dad looks upward, like he may not know the answer. Looking into the middle-distance, he concentrates on memory, seeming to recall a time before now, information back in the past. “John told me people like to wish on it. It’s good luck, maybe. I don’t know why it’s sweet, but I think people throw coins at it for their good fortune,” he muses. “Maybe it’d like it better if people threw chocolate at it rather than pennies.” My mom laughs at this; I manage a good-natured smile, and thank my dad for his information. </p><p>My mouth stays glued shut for the rest of dinner, deep in thought of my rock. (Well, maybe it’s not just mine, anymore. It’s <i>The</i> Sweet Tooth Rock.)</p><p>Though my dad’s words are said in a joking manner, a lightbulb ignites above my head and I curl my toes in thought. My dad was joking when he talked of sweets, but... no hypothesis is unworthy of testing. </p><p>Over the next few weeks, I watch the tide. There are patterns, aligning with the transformation of the moon, that draw the tide out, making the sand on the beach surrounding Sweet Tooth Rock accessible. One such time, I wait ‘till night falls and leave my house with my backpack full of a strange array of supplies for my visit to my beloved rock. </p><p>The cliffs scare me, but my fear lies less in the height than the ocean below.  There are paths that lead from the elevated land down to the beach, and after I slip out of my front door (thankfully with no incidence on my parents’ behalf) I take one well-worn path lined with windflowers down, down, down to sea level. </p><p>Beneath my feet, the sand is soft and holds seawater, the weight and pressure of my body making my shoes sink down. Pausing, I shed my sneakers and socks, tossing them in my pack, and continue forth, walking down the beachline and approaching my rock. </p><p>As I get closer, I think of the things in my backpack and it’s suddenly clear to me that the sweets weighing my backpack down were foolish to bring in the first place. My father’s words were a joke; my mom laughed at them, as she should. There’s no way the rock can enjoy sweets without a mouth to consume them. Bringing the back of my hand to my brow, I press it into my head as if to ward off my previous silly conceptions. </p><p>Still, as I approach the rock, my body begins to gravitate forward, my walk becoming a stride and then curving into a run, a force of energy drawing me towards this great stone. With the tide withdrawn, I can see it in its fullness, and as I come closer, I see that I was right in knowing the rock is bigger than I had thought from my elevated perch. When I finally reach Sweet Tooth Rock, I realize it is nearly as tall as I am. If I had to put a height on it, I would guess it reaches around five feet tall. Certainly worthy of being a local landmark. Proudly, I think of this rock’s name given to it by the many who have gazed upon it and loved it—<i>Sweet Tooth Rock.</i> My hands draw almost automatically to the surface of the stone; it’s smooth, worn from the steady beat of the tide. </p><p>Reversing my backpack, I open the smallest pouch and withdraw a few coins before adjusting my backpack to my back again. Withdrawing a few paces backwards, I throw one coin at the rock, and it clatters downwards, and nothing happens. I look up at the stars, as if they can answer, but the stars aren’t why I’m here tonight. Finally, I look at the rock, disappointed at the mundanity of the occasion, and think that maybe it’s time to caress the rock once more, and simply leave. </p><p>Reaching forward, I touch my hand to the surface of the rock, reaching to feel the edges, the curve of its shape, and the little, sharp point on the top. As I do, I think of the chocolate sauce and marshmallows in my backpack. If I hauled them all the way down here, then is it too dumb to follow through with the experiment? To truly test my dad’s dad joke? </p><p>Shaking my head at the silliness, I reverse my backpack for better access and withdraw the bottle of Hershey’s and package of mini marshmallows. Taking a deep breath in, I click open the top of the bottle and position myself close to the rock, before turning it upside down and pouring a big glob of the sweet brown liquid all over the smooth, gray surface of Sweet Tooth Rock. </p><p>Then—</p><p>To my great surprise, I am pushed backwards with a wave of force, knocking me onto my back on the wet sand below. Scrambling for leverage, I raise onto my elbows, looking for my attacker. But nobody’s there. My backpack is still attached to my chest, and nobody’s around, and the rock in front of me is still— </p><p>The rock in front of me is— </p><p>In only a few seconds, my jaw drops as I blink at the mystifying display before me. The rock, previously rooted in the sand and unmoving, as rocks are, is now shifting, growing into a different being. I shake my head as if to clear it and close my eyes, expecting the image in front of me to disappear when I open them, but—no. My eyes open, I see that the being begins to take its new shape, and it’s humanoid, the shape of a person. Even so, they’re still not quite human; their skin is instead stone, smooth and gray. They’re hunched with their back to me, and slowly turn towards me, their head lifted just beyond their chest. Then, their shoulders roll back, and I realize, coating the edges of their mouth is a layer of Hershey’s Chocolate Sauce.</p><p>Turning towards me, they smile, the corners of their mouth tilting up in a way that seems unpracticed, unfamiliar to their own face. “Hello,” they say, their voice deep and creaky, as if unused. “Been a while since I’ve had a treat like that. Thank you.” </p><p>My arms alit in goosebumps, I attempt to pick my jaw up from the sand in front of me. Scrambling to a sitting position, I slide backwards, clumps of wet sand sticking to the bottom of my jeans. “Wha—”</p><p>With little more than a few seconds of reaction time, the rock before me, or human, or something, leans back. They bring their hands up, as if to give me comfort, to communicate that they aren’t violent. I take a heaving breath and ground my heels into the sand. “Woah, there,” the voice grovels out. “I’m not here to hurt you.” </p><p>A shaky breath escapes from my exhilarated lungs. “What—who are you?” I get out. My mind races, grappling with the dual realities I’ve witnessed. </p><p>Shoulders rolling back, the being before me puffs out their chest, proud. “I am Clove, though many of your kind have given me their own name. I think I am called,” Clove hesitates for a moment, amusement on her face, “Sweet Tooth Rock. I have guarded over the rocks and sea for as long as my existence. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She smiles at me, then, as if offering a gesture of politeness. </p><p>“Your kind? You mean you aren’t... ?” I trail off my speech slowly. </p><p>Clove shakes her head no. “I’m an elemental. A humanoid made of magic and an element.” </p><p>I’m a little dizzy, even though I’m sat on the firm ground of the salty sand below me. It feels like everything’s tipping, my realities starting to change. Magic…? “You’re saying—”</p><p>Clove smiles down at me, like she pities me. “I was once a human too. But I knew magic, and when I died, I didn’t want to just disappear. So my soul resides here, in this rock. I made it so a long time ago.” </p><p>Her story is hard to process. It requires me to acknowledge not only that magic is real but also that this magic can store human “souls” in inanimate objects, like the rock to which Clove’s apparently attached. </p><p>The only coherent question I can muster, though, is: “You knew magic, when you were alive?” </p><p>Clove nods sagely. “Yes, I did, and I still do. I don’t have as much control over magic now because there is no life sprouting from my fingertips anymore. But there was once. All of my once magical objects are long gone now, an echo of life’s past. And though I cannot cast anymore, I know magic still. My mind hasn’t slipped yet.” </p><p>My eyes widen. Somehow, even though it’s completely unbelievable and downright crazy to try to believe her, her words are compelling and sincere. I can’t help but hang onto her words. There’s a part of my brain that’s screaming: <i>no, no, no, magic isn’t real, what is happening right now? Is this some elaborate prank?</i> But there’s nobody who would care enough to enact such a specific, pointed jape. And there she is, right in front of me, a woman made of stone, real, sturdy, gray, solid. </p><p>Patiently, Clove nods at me, seemingly understanding of my disbelief. “I know this isn’t typical,” she ponders aloud. “But if it’s any consolation, like I said, I can’t perform magic now. My soul still resides in this rock, but I do not have a heartbeat, or blood running through my veins. I could say all magic words and nothing would happen. And,” she laughs, then, and to my surprise it’s a lovely, wonderful laugh, full-bodied and warm. “It’s not like I can move from this spot. I am a rock, after all.” </p><p>My eyes had been trained on her face, and her body in general, but I hadn’t looked at her feet yet. Dragging my gaze down her stony body, my eyes followed her shape, which didn’t have specific clothes or accessories attached to it, just the body of a woman, forged in stone. At the bottom of her being, instead of feet, her legs morph down into the sand, buried deep below in a rooted sturdiness. “You’re here… forever?” I ask, a little dumbfounded at the realization. </p><p>Clove smiles, and looks past me. I realize she’s looking at the ocean. The Atlantic Ocean is where Cape Cod meets the water, where these cliffs were beaten by the tides over and over to make their shape. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” she sighs out, but she sounds a bit sad. “The salt in the air, the sand between your toes, the ocean lapping at your ankles. Where else could be better?” </p><p>Though I can’t imagine not being able to move an inch from my spot, I understand her words. I’ve always been fascinated by the the cliffs of my home. The Atlantic’s steady beat of water is comforting to me, a permanent reminder of the harmony between earth and sea. </p><p>“I don’t know,” I respond honestly. “I haven’t been away from home much.” </p><p>She nods and looks again out at the waves and ocean before us. The sky is a somber gray meeting the sea at a distinct line ahead. When it’s daytime outside, it’s blue meeting blue, the pastel of the sky kissing the rocky, blue-gray ocean. But now, under the cover of darkness, it’s hard to tell where each element ends and the next begins. </p><p>“I should get home,” I say, breaking the silence settled comfortably between us. “It’s late. I snuck out.” </p><p>The expression that crosses Clove’s face is almost unreadable, and for a moment I think she’s going to be angry, but her face settles in a mischievous grin. “Sneaking out? You’re a rebellious one, aren’t you?” she teases. </p><p>I smile. “Just curious, is all,” I correct. “That’s why I needed to come down here to see you. I didn’t expect what I found out, though.” </p><p>“Life is surprising and mysterious in innumerable ways,” she responds. “I didn’t catch your name, young one.” Rolling back her shoulders, she studies me.</p><p>Without meaning to, my shoulders scrunch up defensively. “I’m not <i>that</i> young,” I protest. “I’m Noel, though. It’s… nice to meet you, Clove.” </p><p>“Likewise. Get home now. It’s not like I’ll be gone if you decide to come back,” Clove says, and the comfort of her grounding presence strikes me then, the lack of risk in associating myself with this rock. She wouldn’t move; she can’t. </p><p>I nod to Clove and wave a little goodbye, before turning on my heel and walking away from her, my feet sinking shallowly into the damp sand with each step forward. When I make it up to the top of the cliffs, my chest heaving a bit with effort, I must glance back at Clove. There’s a large part of my brain that’s screaming to me: you imagined this. That whole interaction was a hallucination, from heat exhaustion or tiredness or <i>something</i>. It can’t’ve been real, could it have? So I glance over my shoulder to check if she’s still there, the womanly form of rock that calls herself Clove. </p><p>But when I look back, all I see is a five-foot-tall triangular rock, in the shape of a curved tooth. </p><p>-</p><p>When I return to the rock the next night, it is with cautious steps and some more sweet snacks burdening my backpack. There’s also a list of questions written on a lined piece of paper, because if it turns out that Clove is real, not just a figment of my imagination, then there’s some things that I need to ask. </p><p>As I descend the pathway to the beach again, I wonder if <i>this</i> is it, the time in my life that I go mad. There’s some people at my school during the year that pester me, and call me crazy for something or another. Not only that, but my mother tells me that I’m too curious for my own good. Maybe this enchanted rock, this <i>theory</i> of magic, is the final nail in the coffin for writing me off as a crazed little girl, gone to curiosity and crazy myths. </p><p>But there’s a pull in my chest that makes me glance from my bedroom window to the large curved rock on the beach below. So now, at the stroke of midnight, I slip out of our back door silently and into the night. </p><p>The scream of the night crickets in the grass around my house and the wildflowers and weeds around the paths is comforting and known as I descend the trail to the beach. </p><p>When I finally approach her, she’s in the form of a rock, shaped uniquely, tall and mighty. Kneeling to lower my backpack to the wet sand, I reach into my supplies and pull out my next offering: a full-sized Rice Krispie bar. I unwrap the bright, metallic-blue wrapping from the bar and, getting on my tippy-toes, rest it gently on the tip of the tall, solid sharp rock. It takes me a second to get the balancing right, but once I do, it stays perfectly still balanced on the top of Sweet Tooth Rock. </p><p>In the timespan of a blink—but my eyes are open, so I won’t miss it—the solid, unmoving exterior of Sweet Tooth Rock morphs inwards, becoming the vague shape of a woman, from her outwards eyebrow ridges and flowing waves of curling stone to the curves of her body, her breasts and hips. What used to balance atop the highest part of her is now safely in her hand, gripped loosely but sturdily, as she blinks her eyes at me, waking up. </p><p>I’m standing further away this time when she transforms, but the wave of energy that exudes from her body as she transitions into her humanoid elemental form still shocks me, taking a step back to accommodate her. But it’s less shocking this time knowing what to anticipate, and as she blinks and sees me standing in front of her and looks from me to her hand where the Rice Krispy bar is, I see her smile. </p><p>“You came back again,” she says, a bit of surprise in her deep, earthy voice. “Again, and with sweets!” There’s a full-out grin on her face as she brings the marshmallowy bar to her face and takes a big bite of it, her stony mouth closing around the candy and savoring the flavor with a big smile. Her smile makes me smile, too. </p><p>I shrug my shoulders. Getting a one-dollar snack from the vending machine at school wasn’t too much of a big deal, although I did feel a little more tired when I’d woken up that morning with less sleep. Even so, when I yawned I would think about my new friend whose soul is embedded into a stone by the sea, and I would feel a strange feeling in my stomach, giddy at my own wonderful secret. “I had to be sure you were real, you know?” I explain, wringing my hands. “Magic is kinda new to me, okay? It’s not everyday you learn that people can put their souls into elements.” </p><p>Clove smiles, and takes another bite of candied cereal. It crunches in her mouth as she chews. “Well, yeah. And it seems you don’t mind my company.” </p><p>I clear my throat, and my face heats, wondering what she’s thinking, and I lower onto my knees on the wet sand, sending my weight back to my ankles to rest near the ground. “No, not at all. You’re a great conversationalist. And I had a few questions?” I inquire, my voice lifting near the end. </p><p>Shrugging her stone shoulders, she turns her chin up confidently, puffing out her chest. “I’ll answer whatever I can, Noel.” </p><p>Hearing my name in her deep, smooth voice rises goosebumps all over my arms, for some reason, but I push onwards. It’s not like she can see that in the dark. I shove my hand into my pack blindly for the paper I prepared, and smooth it out once it’s in my hands in the open. She raises a stone eyebrow at me, but does not offer a comment. I clear my throat. “I was just wondering… How did you know how to do magic?” </p><p>Clove hums thoughtfully, and leans forward, into my space a bit, and as if her shoulders were magnetized to mine, I lean too, her energy incredibly infectious. </p><p>She begins to speak, and I look into her eyes, carved roughly but still clear enough to see where she’s looking, the depth of them carved into the stone and thoughtful and searching. “My mom taught me magic, and her mother taught her before me. Magic is an old discipline, one that doesn’t fit in modernity’s understanding. I am thousands of years old,” she pauses, almost as if embarrassed, “and the books, enchanted stones, magical objects and spellcasting aides I once owned are dust, now, or in the hands of a new spellcaster, many miles away, I’m sure.” </p><p>Her words surprise and fascinate me, and I make a mental note that she’s thousands of years old. I’m impressed and even more interested than I was before. I swallow, and move to my next question. “Is it possible that I could use magic? What makes a spellcaster, Clove?” </p><p>The expression on Clove’s face is unreadable. Her eyes look past me, to the ocean before us. The nighttime tide is steady in its incessant beat against the sand and the base of Clove as well as my sandy toes. “Sometimes magic is inherited, like in the case of my mother and I. But not always. Sometimes it’s incidental, dispersed throughout the population randomly, occurring all throughout the world, through all of time and human history.” </p><p>My hands grip the piece of paper with my sprawling handwriting tighter. “So could I be…?” </p><p>Clove shrugs her shoulders. A clear maybe, tilted towards no. “I’m not sure, Noel. Has anything ever happened to you, anything out of the usual? Did you ever accidentally make something happen that is unexplainable to the rules of modern science and logic?” </p><p>I take a moment to think, and scour my memories for some sort of Harry Potter-like moment, something to show that I could have magic pouring from my fingertips accidentally. But from what I can remember, the past and my childhood and teen years so far, there’s nothing. My shoulders slump inwards, and I exhale a sigh, looking up at the stars painting the dark sky with their tiny little sparkles. </p><p>“It’s okay not to use magic,” Clove says. I notice her voice is gentle, as if approaching a dog with a wounded leg who may snap if approached too close. “I don’t, now, either. And that’s okay. I made peace with it. Life is magical, already.” </p><p>I think for a moment, and it’s easy to agree. The whistle of the wind through the tall grass and the steady chirp of grasshoppers and crickets calms me, as well as the cool water brushing the bottom of my feet. “Not having magic isn’t that bad. I’ve dealt with it my whole life already,” I say with a smile, and Clove smiles back, trading our happiness back and forth. </p><p>I chat with her until the early hours of the morning, and it’s she that suggests I go back to my room when it rolls around to 2am and I’m still asking her questions. Shrugging, I reluctantly agree, and bid her adieu, her Rice Krispy bar long gone to her Sweet Tooth appetite. With a shy wave, and a “good night, Noel,” she sends me off, and I try my best to ignore the butterflies that erupt in my tummy at hearing my name in her voice. </p><p>-</p><p>When my parents pass later on in my life, it’s easy to make the decision to stay in Cape Cod. I like the world and its vastness, and I enjoy taking trips every so often; seeing the Great Lakes of Michigan and hiking its trails; the great mountainous Montana, with its national parks and brown bears; California’s fire-red soil and rolling hills accompanied with the shiniest beach water you’d ever see; but ultimately, there is something about the marriage of cliff and sea, sealed together with a gray sky, that I always longed for when I was away. A lungful of Cape Cod seawater at the edge of the cliff our house perched on is something I’m not able to say I want to ever give away, or ever need to spend time or effort to get back to. </p><p>I say all this like it was my choice, but in reality, I wouldn’t know how to leave Cape Cod for good. My parents are buried here, along with some friends and some past lovers, too. And, though I wouldn’t admit it to most people, I treasure Clove’s presence in my life, her friendship constant from the night I first met her to today, consistent, patient, and loving. </p><p>When my mom kicked the bucket, which I don’t love to think about too hard, I sobbed so hard in my room that my dad slipped a note under my door that he was there for me. But it’s hard to confide in family when dealing with familial grief; he just lost his lifetime lover, his wife, the mother of his child. I didn’t want to burden him further with my own loss. </p><p>Clove, though, when I asked if she wanted to hear about something, would always, always, listen. When I had something I wanted to get off my chest, she would always tell me she was open to listening, and when I talked about my mom’s death, she told me she was so sorry for my loss, and that it was okay to cry. </p><p>Losing my dad was even harder, most likely because there was so much I wanted to say to him, and never got to, before he was gone. I think losing the love of his life was too hard for him to go on, and the house without them, with the bills and mortgage and every other responsibility now on my shoulders, I rarely spent time in those old rooms, letting the dust collect on tables never sat at, couches never used. Instead I sat by the sea and talked with Clove, watching the ocean’s brewing waves and the expressions and thoughts that arose from Clove’s clever being. </p><p>- </p><p>At that, it’s unsurprising this is where I end up at the end of my life, too. I’m not so mobile anymore, but I still make the journey every day from my house to the bottom of the cliffs, walking the half-mile from my house to Clove and spending the day outside, shooting the breeze. We’ve talked about everything, from first kisses to magic pranks to best old-times desserts, and the freckles dotting my face and shoulders are thick from so many days spent by the ocean. </p><p>My whole life, I wondered if I’d find a partner. I enjoy romance novels and love a good love story, so I figured it would be nice to have a significant other of my own, to express my love towards and treasure for all my life. Sitting in my wooden chair near Clove as we talk and laugh, I realize I found it when I was child, when I took the risk to bring this stone a bottle of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup, and when my bones rest I want them to be as near to her stone as they can.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>leave a comment if you feel like it/have the energy to do so, they brighten my day! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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